Impossible to remove, erase, or wash away; permanent.

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Some Sort of Alive

My step sways to the left as I edge Delancey Street. My palm raises to the sky as if I was begging for forgiveness but truly, “Taxi!” I mumble the address, withdrawn into myself, could have been anywhere. Jittery fingers are blasting poorly typed confessions into my smart phone.

Lock the door. Brush my teeth. His breath is so melodic when he sleeps. Clothes fall off. My patch is unruly but I am too twisted to care. I curve my spine around him and it begins in no time.

He. He becomes my meat. Vegetarian and famished. His body is plentiful. Gnawing on forearms, bulky. Storing muscle for my teeth, sharp as winter, my growls are begs, I want to consume him.

My thighs sting from self-afflicted scratches. I learned earlier that evening that dancing is so much better when there is infliction. Guess I’m a sucker for over-stimulation. Heart racing in my mouthfuls. Okay. Yes. I am alive.

I grab onto his. Glad he doesn’t stop. Take more of him into my mouth, this time I don’t bite. Things are crecendoing but I still get bored. I jerk my head to his thigh and bite him again.

He pushes my head away and pins me down tight.

It is mostly good. We are mostly there. In that moment. Thoughtless but impulsive. The ends to each others urges. That’s what makes it good. That’s the “secret”– Cosmopolitan Feature Story:

Be the only ones in the room.

Don’t Filter.

Primal but intimate.

In the shower the next morning we counted the tattoos my jaw gave him. “I haven’t been out that late in months– a year?” I say as I scrub him down. “I feet immortal and carnivorous when I’m breathing in Manhattan’s night. Can I drop the V word? I think that everything will click again when I get that freedom on the regular dosage. Some sort of alive.”